Take a look at your cat. Go on. A nice, intense stare. The stare of a man walking to the chair on Death Row should do the trick. Has your pussy even noticed yet? Have they been intimidated by your stone-cold stare? Or are they still sprawled out like fvck, purring like a Robin Reliant’s engine, dreaming cat-dreams of lounging in the sun, eating never-ending bowls of Whiskas, dreaming that mice are on valium so they’re so really easy to catch and that they’ll be able to get tickled under the chin and around the ears whenever they want?

Mine hasn’t moved. She’s flat out at the foot of my bed and seriously could not give two flying fucks if I’m staring at her or not. She’s dreaming her dreams so I’d better leave her to it. She’ll only moan at me otherwise. It’s a good thing she doesn’t care about much because if she did actually care about anything at all and had more of an attitude, I’d be fucked simply for glancing at her and not feeding her at the right time. She’d have scratched my eyes out a long time ago. And what sort of career would I have had then, eh? Luckily, she’s a bit of a gem so my eyes are safe for a while.

Which isn’t what I can say for these unfortunate souls. We all know that when cats go bad they go really bad,  like your missus on her period or Charlie Sheen on an extremely prolonged binge. We should all just take a moment and appreciate our laid-back cats for a minute as owning one of these beautys doesn’t seem like something I’d be too up for at the moment. I don’t really like bleeding all over my kitchen floor.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is when cats go bad:

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